The Manhattan Journals
by PJ XD
Summary: Jasper Whitlock was born with a silver spoon in his mouth, and raised on a diet of secrets and scandal. What else would you expect from a child of the Upper East Side? Trapped in an existence of false friends and whispered threats, he's never thought that he'd be brave enough to break out from the confines of his ivory tower. Until Alice. JPOV companion to The Brooklyn Diaries. AH.


_**A/N- Okay, so here it is. The first chapter of my Gossip-Girl inspired companion story to Alice's tale in The Brooklyn Diaries. Jasper's world is a lot darker than Alice's, for the most part, and weirdly hard to write. Probably because I'm neither rich nor famous – more's the pity – but mostly because he's got so much working against him. **_

_**Jasper uses a bit more bad language in his inner monologue than Alice does, but then, he's got more to be angry about. **_

_**Oh, and this first chapter is set right after Jasper's sixteenth birthday, which for anyone who has read TBD will know, is right around the time he first saw Alice. Pre-Rose going to boarding school.**_

_**This story is designed to fill in the blanks from Alice's perspective. I'm not sure if it stands alone. We shall see. **_

_**As always, I own nothing but the actual words.**_

* * *

Today, my girlfriend Maria made me watch that god-awful movie, Cruel Intentions. Now, I was trying pretty hard to remain conscious the whole way through it – but it gave me an idea. I decided to start keeping a journal of all the sordid scandal that really goes on in the Upper East Side, like that Sebastian guy did. So, here I go. This is entry number one of the expose that I will never have the guts to actually publish, much as I'd like to bust everyone for their secrets and lies.

I'll start by introducing myself, I guess. I'm Jasper Peter Whitlock III, or just Jasper, if you don't want to be an obnoxious dick about it. My father is the richest and most influential bastard in Manhattan – hell, on the whole East Coast. My mother is a retired Victoria's Secret model, and just about the most shallow person I've ever met.

You know those Manhattan penthouse apartments that you look up at, and just know that you could never in a million years afford to live there? Yep, that's where I've lived my whole life, looking out at the skyline, the Hudson, watching the world go by. Most people would think that was awesome – they're wrong. It's a fucking ice palace.

Of course, cold is all you get in an apartment with twenty eight rooms and three people residing in them. I rattle around this place like a pea in a goddamn drum.

This morning was no different. I woke up to the sound of Maggie bustling into my room. Maggie is the only person in my house who I can actually stand to be around. She's been our maid for eight years, ever since she arrived aged twenty in New York, straight off a plane from Cork in Ireland. She's got this insanely curly red hair and a really soft, lilting voice. She always used to sing me lullabies when I was small.

I don't think my mom ever even tucked me into bed as a child unless it was for a photo op.

"Jasper," Maggie called, poking one bony finger into the lump of comforter that I was hiding under. "It's time to get up."

I groaned, and tugged the covers tighter around me. "Mags, I'm not going to school."

We go through the same routine every morning. She always wins. Today was no different. "Yes, you are. Don't be such a bloody whinge, boy."

I didn't even have the energy to argue with her this morning, so instead I just rolled out of bed with a sigh and headed towards my bathroom.

"I've made you breakfast!" Maggie called helpfully after my retreating back.

By the time I was showered and dressed, Maggie was dishing up my food. She'd made pancakes – with fresh fruit rather than syrup, because my mother always insisted that 'our house was not an IHOP'. Still, Maggie cooked better than anyone I'd ever met – with perhaps the exception of Rosalie's family maid, Vera, who literally makes the best salmon en croute I have ever tasted.

I wolfed down my pancakes – knowing I'll end up with indigestion doesn't seem to persuade me to eat any slower – and was just stuffing the last of my homework into my bag when my father decided to saunter down the stairs, already in a business suit and clearly talking on his Bluetooth headset.

"Morning," I said to him, which he ignored. As per usual. I think the last conversation longer than a couple of sentences that we actually had was when I was about thirteen, and I told him I wanted to move to Paris. He'd actually argued with me for a full five minutes about that one. I didn't even have the heart to tell him that I had only said it to get some attention.

He was frowning at the coffee pot, clearly listening intently to whoever was on the other end of the phone.

"Is this caffeinated?" he barked at Maggie, who nodded. She shot me an eye roll as my father poured himself a cup of coffee, and I choked on a laugh.

I left for school without even seeing my mother. She doesn't usually get up until around ten, unless she has some socialite event to plan for, like cotillion, or some charity gala.

School was school. I hung with my friends, spent morning break being fawned over by my adoring girlfriend – which, let's face it, brightens every guy's day – and then ended up walking out of the gate with Edward at the end of the day, already stuffing my tie into my bag.

"Jazz, I just realized – I left my phone in my locker," Edward groaned, clapping one hand to his forehead. He was always so dramatic about tiny things, and so underwhelmed by massive problems – it made me laugh.

"Go get it," I suggested. "I'll wait."

As he turned to high-tail it back into the building, and I checked my own phone to see whether Maria was going to come round later or not. She hadn't texted me yet, but that didn't necessarily mean anything. She prides herself on being 'spontaneous'. I've never bothered to point out to her that it isn't spontaneity if I know she's going to come round anyway.

I turned around to wait for Edward by the town car, and felt something collide with my chest. I heard a high-pitched curse, and then the clatter as books tumbled to the ground.

"Oh, shit, I'm sorry," I apologized, bending down to help with the clean-up.

My eyes locked onto a pair of wide, mahogany brown ones framed by thick lashes. She blinked, and I refocused my gaze on her face.

"No, it's my fault; I'm such a klutz…"

I didn't even hear her words because I was too busy staring at her. Holy shit, she was beautiful! Her features were delicate, elfin. She was pale. Her face looked even paler framed by her long waves of inky black hair. She had a bright pink stripe through it, which should have looked weird, but actually kind of worked for her. Her whole outfit did, strange as it was. She'd done something to her uniform, sewn some pink thing underneath it, so that it stuck out and showed off her tiny waist. She had curves, I noticed. Surprisingly good ones, on such a small chick.

As we straightened up, I saw just how small she actually was. Pocket-sized. Like a pixie or something. Although I don't know many pixies that wear knee-high lace up Doc Martens.

She craned her neck up to better look me in the eye, and I was met with an overwhelming urge to pick her up so that we were on the same level. What the hell was wrong with me?

"Well, it is obvious why I didn't see you – you're tiny. How you missed me, on the other hand…?" I decided to tease her, like that would be my best option to mask the sudden dryness in my throat. A dryness that shouldn't be there, because I HAVE A GIRLFRIEND. A girlfriend who I love.

She blushed slightly, and it was freakin' adorable. "I… uh… well, I was away with the fairies, I guess."

I laughed. What a coincidence for her to say that, because I'd just been thinking how much she looked just like a little fairy herself. "Relatives of yours, the fairies?"

She narrowed her eyes at me, and I was surprised by how much I liked that look. It was part amusement, part annoyance, and totally hot. "Is that a height joke?"

"It might be." I was really enjoying myself, now. Suddenly, I was struck by the urge to impress her. Might as well play the hand I was dealt, and name-drop myself. "I didn't introduce myself, did I? I'm Jasper Whitlock."

She didn't even bat an eyelid at my surname. "Nice to meet you."

I waited for a minute, wondering if she'd actually forgotten the social etiquette that surrounds an introduction. She shook her black hair out of her eyes, blinking up at me, and said nothing. Eventually, I got impatient. "Do you have a name?"

"I have three, actually." That half-smirk on her face was sexy as hell. I felt a little bit nervous. Trust me to have a conversation with pretty much the only girl I'd ever met who could make me squirm.

I played it cool with a grin, though. "Care to venture one?"

"Alice. Alice Brandon."

Alice. I tested her name out in my head. Alice. Hm. She tilted her head to one side, and her hair fell back enough so that I could see the small pencil she had stuck behind her double-pierced ear. It looked well-worn. Maybe she was an artist? She looked like one.

"Nice hair, Alice Brandon," I said, nodding at the pink stripe through the black. I meant it sincerely, but she seemed to take it the wrong way, because her jaw set.

"I can't really afford to get mine professionally coiffed like you."

Miaow. The claws come out. Her statement had been laced with so much passive aggression that I fought a smile. "Stereotyping, much?" I accused.

She shrugged. "Not really."

I was annoyed at that. I'd heard from Maria – right, Jasper, remember her, your girlfriend? – that there was a scholarship girl in her class at Constance, and that she was a massive freak. Considering Alice's out-there style and cutting words, I could only assume this was she.

"So, what's the pink supposed to symbolize? Blowing off all of the normal Constance trends? Alice Brandon: too cool for school?" I needled her. She didn't rise to the bait, though.

"Not exactly. I'm just not into that whole preppy thing."

I felt bizarrely disappointed by that. I was preppy. Of course I was, we were at a damn prep school. Did that mean she wasn't into my whole scene, or was she being more personal than that? Did she mean that she wasn't into me?

That shouldn't have bothered me, but I'd be lying if I said that it didn't.

I brushed my hair impatiently back from my face. "So, what are you into? Angry punk rock and guys with multiple facial piercings?"

"Now who's stereotyping?" She shot at me. "Maybe I just want something to set me apart, that way I don't have to carry that neon sign that says 'defensive scholarship kid' on my back all day."

I liked the imagery her wry words conjured. "Yeah, I hear those things are heavy."

We were interrupted by Edward's reappearance. He raced down the front steps, waving his cell phone at me like the massive dork he actually is. I mean, Edward really hit the social jackpot, because he doesn't actually have much natural cool-factor to work with. He's kind of a spaz, actually. But with his face and his name working for him, nobody else would ever admit it.

"Jazz, I got it, we can go!"

I felt my gaze being pulled back to Alice like a magnet. I wanted to stay near her, to keep talking to her, to attempt to figure her out. But I couldn't, and I didn't, because that would have set Edward off asking questions. And it wasn't like I could admit to him that I was lusting-at-first-sight with the freaky freshman girl that my girlfriend despises. "Okay. See you around, Alice."

She didn't respond, which curiously didn't surprise me. She'd not been any good at introducing herself, so I really didn't expect her goodbye to be much better.

Looking into her eyes, I let myself indulge, momentarily, in the idea that she might be as reluctant to finish our conversation as I was. But then Edward clapped me on the shoulder, steering me away, and I felt myself being herded down the sidewalk.

Alice. Alice Brandon. Her name rang in my ears.

"So, are you free tonight?" Edward asked me as we reached the town car that always picked us up. He opened the door, and stood back to allow me to bundle in first. "Or are you at Maria's?"

Maria. Shit, I'd forgotten about her again.

I'd been too busy thinking about Alice.

Boy, was I in trouble.

* * *

"Jasper, what do you think?"

"Huh?"

Maria was pirouetting in front of me, oblivious to the fact that I hadn't been paying any attention. She had been modeling the clothes from her mother's new line for me for the past twenty minutes. Usually, I couldn't get enough of watching her slink around in tiny dresses and heels – Maria was about fifty different kinds of hot, and she'd mastered her 'aggressively sexy' persona aged about eleven, so I never had had any trouble staying interested.

"This dress? Do you like it?" She struck a pose. My eyes traveled up her bare legs, over her body to settle on her expectant face. Her eyes were big and dark and hopeful.

"I love it," I said, though I had to look again to check which one she was wearing.

Normally, now would be about the time when I made some sort of suggestive comment, or else, just started kissing her. I couldn't work up the enthusiasm for it today, though.

Why not, I hear you ask?

Alice. Alice Brandon. That's why.

I don't know what's wrong with me. Why the fuck can't I get her out of my head? It's like she burrowed in there and set up camp permanently, all in the five minutes we actually spoke. Hours, now, I'd been thinking about the narrowed gaze and the sardonic smile she had given me.

I was obsessing. It would pass eventually, right? I just needed to wait it out.

I'm writing this now, and I'm still waiting.

Maria sashayed across the floor in her stupidly high shoes and draped herself across my lap. "Jazz, are you okay? You seem kind of out of it. Is something bothering you?"

Now, there was a loaded question if ever I'd heard one. Many, many things were bothering me at that moment. One – I wasn't remotely turned on by my girlfriend practically straddling me in a skimpy outfit. Two – I was getting turned on thinking about freaky, artsy, emo Alice. Three – I was staggering out the evening for as long as possible, because I knew that when I got home, I'd have to go through my father's drawers to hide whatever he was snorting this week. Four – When my mother inevitably found what I'd hidden, I'd end up getting the blame.

But Maria wouldn't want to hear any of that, so instead, I smiled and lied through my teeth. "No, nothing, babe. I'm just a bit tired."

"Oh," she tutted, biting down on her lip. That usually drove me crazy. Today, I had nothing.

"Don't worry, I'll bounce back," I told her, unsure of who I was trying to convince.

Thankfully, I was spared any more questions to dodge by my phone ringing. I flipped it open and sighed when I recognized the caller I.D. – _Garrett, Interpol Bar_.

That inevitably led to thing-that-was-bothering-me-number-five. Rosalie.

I answered the call and pressed the phone to my ear, shooting Maria an apologetic look. "Hey, Garrett."

"Jasper?"

"Yeah, it's me."

"Oh, thank god. Listen – you might want to come down here and pick up your cousin."

I scrubbed one hand down my face wearily. "How bad is she?"

"She's pretty wasted. I stopped her from going home with these two big guys from the Bronx, but you should probably get down here quick before she manages to stagger off somewhere where I can't keep an eye on her."

"How much has she had?"

"Difficult to say. She was half-conscious when she arrived. Slurring all over the place. You know how she gets."

"Yeah." I knew, alright. "Thanks, Garrett. I'm on my way."

"I'll try to hang onto her until you get here."

When I looked up from my phone, Maria was pouting. "You have to leave?" she demanded. I gave her an apologetic look.

"Sorry, babe. I need to pick up Rosie."

"Oh!" Her eyes widened in understanding. "Has she been partying again?"

"Yeah." One thing I loved about Maria was how incredibly anti-drugs she was. She didn't even drink, other than the occasional glass of champagne at parties. After spending what felt like half my lifetime cleaning up after intoxicated people, I appreciated her sobriety.

I didn't really understand how she and Rosie could maintain a solid friendship despite their differences in opinion on the matter, though. I guess girls are just a mystery.

"You can bring her back here, if you want? I'll get her a bath and put her to bed?" Maria offered. I smiled at her.

"Thanks, but I think I'll take her to Emmett's. Less chance of my aunt hearing about it, that way. If your mom saw her…" I trailed off. I didn't need to complete the sentence – Maria already knew.

"Okay. Be careful." She leaned close to me to give me a quick kiss. In that moment, I forgot about Alice Brandon, feeling only the reassurance of the girl who had been there for me my whole teenage life so far.

Then I shrugged on my jacket and left for the rough end of town.

* * *

I found Rosalie sandwiched between two guys in a dark corner, giggling drunkenly and mussing up the one on the left's hair. Garrett shot me an apologetic look from behind the bar as I marched over to where they were sitting.

The guy on the left had his hand up her skirt.

My fists clenched so hard that I felt my nails bite into the flesh of my palms. I didn't even need to look to know that I'd drawn blood.

The guy on the right glanced up at me as I approached. He looked pissed off, but I'd be willing to bet it was nothing to how I must've looked.

"Rose," I growled. Her head snapped up. Fuck, her eyes were dilated. She was clearly on something a little bit more potent than alcohol.

"Jazzy!" she shrieked, sloshing her drink everywhere. "You made it! Come join!" At least, I think that's what she said. It was difficult to tell with all the slurring.

"Get the fuck off her," I hissed, when the guy with his hand up her skirt didn't take the hint from the way I was eyeballing him. "Now."

"C'mon, man," he said loudly. "No need to be like that. She your girl or something? She seems willing to share the love… we could make it a party?"

My jaw shut with an audible snap. "She's my cousin. And unless you want me to sever your fucking hand from your wrist, you'll take it out of her underwear. Right now."

He looked at me with raised eyebrows.

"I won't ask again," I threatened. He seemed to decide I was serious, because he slowly retracted his hand. Rose, meanwhile, was examining the drink in her hand like she couldn't remember how it got there. She probably couldn't.

I reached over to tug her out of the now unresisting arms of the two guys she'd cosied up to. "Up you come, Rosie."

Laughing, she tripped and stumbled into me. I'd been expecting it, so I caught her without a slip. I wrapped my arm around her waist, fastening her to my side so that she wouldn't fall down when we started to walk.

"Are we leaving?" she garbled, surprised. I nodded at her obviously.

"Yes, Rose. We're leaving."

"Okay," she shrugged clumsily. "Bye, boys." She gave her molesters a flaccid wave in farewell.

I fought back the urge to grab her and shake her until her brain started to respond. Knowing it wouldn't do any good, instead I dragged her out of the door, making sure to stop and give Garrett a tip for doing me yet another Rose-related favor.

Rosalie owed Garrett more than she would ever be aware of.

She lurched to one side as we emerged into the fresh air, and I struggled to keep my grip on her.

"Whoa!" she spluttered. "Everything's spinning. Hee hee."

"Rosie, come on. Stay standing, please." I repeated the phrase again and again, more like a mantra to the universe than a simple instruction for her benefit. She was too far gone to know which way was up at this point.

I hailed a cab, and bundled her into it with difficulty, before sliding in beside her. She snuggled her head against my shoulder as I gave the cabbie directions to Emmett's place. He took off with a nod.

"I'm sleepy," Rose mumbled into my neck.

If I closed my eyes, I could almost pretend that we were kids again. It was the way we always used to sit when we'd fallen asleep in the home theater watching all the old noir films we used to love, repeating the lines in affected voices as they were spoken on screen.

She used to lean her head against my shoulder then, too.

It was only the stench of stale booze that kept me from imagining for too long.

* * *

Emmett buzzed us up on the first ring. I had to carry Rosie into the elevator – the doorman gave us both a suspicious, but not surprised, glance. She mumbled complete nonsense at me while the floors flashed away. I simply stared at the flickering numbers, waiting.

When the doors opened and I managed to maneuver Rosalie into the lounge, Emmett stood up to greet us.

What did it say about my life that I was relieved when I saw that he was completely baked, rather than being drunk himself?

"Hey, man," he drawled. "I'll take her."

Even stoned, Emmett is strong and sure-footed, so I handed Rose's limp form to him without argument. He hoisted her up in his arms as if she weighed nothing.

Rose's eyelids fluttered open, and her face broke out into a sloppy, dorky grin. "Emmett!" she enthused. "You're here."

"I'm here, Rosie-Posie. Have you had a little bit too much to drink?"

She nodded, pressing one finger to her lips. "Don't tell Jasper. He'll get mad."

Apparently, she had completely forgotten that I had even seen her tonight, much less carried her here and was still standing a few feet away. Emmett shot me a half-hearted grin.

"Don't worry, babe, I won't tell him."

"You promise?"

Emmett walked the few steps to the couch and laid her gently down on it, grabbing a cushion and propping it behind her head. "I promise."

When he straightened up, I jerked my head towards the kitchen. Nodding, Emmett followed as I made a beeline for the door.

Once in there, we leant against opposite counters, both with our arms crossed over our chests.

"I really appreciate you doing this again, Em."

"It's fine, Jasper. Really. I don't mind, so long as Rosie's safe."

"Without you, I don't know that she would be," I muttered darkly.

"As long as you're there, she will," he said solemnly. His eyes were green-gray rimmed with red, but completely sincere.

Emmett glanced back towards where Rosie was passed out, and his face looked very pensive.

"I wish she wouldn't drink like that," he said with a sigh. I thought it was a bit hypocritical of Emmett to say so, but I couldn't deny that I agreed with him.

"She was on something a bit stronger than vodka cranberries," I informed him. He winced.

"She's fifteen." He said that like the information was somehow surprising to him. I didn't know why. Rosie had been doing tequila shooters at sleepovers since she was in middle school. It was sad as fuck, but when Aunt Madeline would rather go to lunch at Butter with the members of the school board and orate on the importance of being a parent rather than actually pay any attention to her only daughter, it tended to lead to teenage rebellion.

Especially when Daddy spent most of his free time screwing his way through the graduates he hired. Not that Rose knew anything about Michael Hale's infamous 'interview technique'.

I didn't really feel like explaining all that to Emmett, so instead I just said, "I'm aware of that."

Em's eyes were way beyond sad when he looked at me then, and I got the impression that he knew there was something I wasn't sharing. It would've been a fair assumption, not only because it was true, but because I was a Whitlock. I learned secrets and lies at my mother's knee, and goddamn, if I wasn't a natural at it.

"You ever think about getting out of here, Jazz?" he asked me abruptly.

"Where would I go?" I asked miserably. "It's not like my parents couldn't just hunt me down and drag me home again. Besides, I couldn't just run away. I'd never leave Rosie to deal with this shit. She can't take it on her own."

Emmett watched me in silence for a moment, before breaking out into a sigh. "You know something? I really admire you, man. You just deal with whatever's thrown at you, and you never moan about it the way Eddie does. You're like Saint-friggin'-Jasper."

My face twisted into a painful grimace. There were a hundred skeletons in my family closet, and I'd dumped more than my fair share in there. I covered tracks. I put band-aids over bullet wounds. But I never really fixed anything. I never helped. It never changed.

When you spend your time burying secrets trying to clean up messes, all you end up doing is getting your hands dirty.

Mine are fucking _filthy_. And they're never gonna get clean. Not after the shit I've done.

"Don't. There's nothing admirable about me."

And that might just be the only honest thing I can actually admit.

* * *

I left Rosalie snoring on Emmett's couch while he flicked through the TV channels, and decided to catch the subway back home. I've never told anyone this, but I like the subway. There's something totally anonymous about it. Nobody looks at me like I'm an idol to be worshipped. If anything, they glare at me when I block the exit. I like it that way. Sometimes, I play a game. I check out the other guys on the train – not in a gay way, or anything – and imagine for a while that I'm just like them. I imagine what's waiting for them when they get home. Maybe a home cooked meal. Maybe a couple of rounds of Halo with a roommate, and then some leftover pizza, washed down by a beer. Maybe a mom that notices they've been gone all night. Maybe a dad who invites them to watch the game with him.

I pretend I'm the one that's going to go back to that house, and that life. It makes me feel better for about a millisecond. Then I realize that it's my stop, and I have to get off and go back to reality, so I try and brush the fiction to one side. Of course, in my world, reality and fiction have a perverted relationship.

When I got home, most of the lights were off. I'm used to navigating my palatial apartment in the dark, so it didn't really faze me as I picked my way through the house. With the lights off, the view of Manhattan around me was stunning. It seemed surreal, living so high up, looking down on it all. That was as much a metaphor as it was literal to my parents. As far as they were concerned, the rest of the world was beneath us.

For me, it was pretty symbolic, too. This was the ivory tower the Whitlocks had built. And I was a prisoner in my own home.

I checked in on my mom when I passed my parents' room. She was asleep, a silk eye mask draped over her face. My dad was nowhere to be found. I pulled the door to, and left her to her blissful ignorance.

I didn't need more than one guess to figure out where my father would be. He was in his study, fast asleep on his mahogany desk. I almost grinned at the sight of him, looking so innocent and peaceful as he snored away. Then I clocked the antique cigarette case half-hidden under his hand, and my smile died on my lips.

Sighing, I crossed the room and gently tugged it out of his grip. He must've been out cold, because he didn't even stir. I flipped it open to examine the contents, already pretty sure of what I'd find.

I hate it when I'm right. There, nestled into the velvet lining, was a little plastic baggie of white powder. It could have been anything. If you held it up to the light, it almost looked like baby powder, or protein shake mix, or weed killer. But I wasn't naïve enough to think it was anything other than cocaine.

I pocketed the baggie and replaced the cigarette case where I'd found it. With any luck, my dad wouldn't even think to ask me if I'd taken his drugs. He'd just assume he'd snorted the lot.

At least I could flush this lot without getting busted by Maggie. She was already in bed, for once. I knew she wasn't stupid – she knew what her employer was up to – but she let me pretend everything was okay, even when it wasn't.

I'm not sure whether to be grateful to her for that, or just be pissed off that there was one more person willing to tend the giant, poisonous lie that my life had become.

Sighing, I let myself into the bathroom, dumped the bag of coke down the sink, and made my way into my bedroom. All the images of the day stuck with me as I got into bed, flashing like pictures in one of those corny slideshows they always use when my dad invariably wins Man of the Year.

When I eventually settled on an image that didn't make me feel like I wanted to throw up, I rolled over and buried my face in the pillow.

I fell asleep thinking about a pair of glittering dark eyes, and a strip of bright pink.

Sincerely,

J.P.W.

* * *

_**A/N – Let me know what you think! (Especially if you've read The Brooklyn Diaries)**_

_**PJ**_

_**x**_


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